Loving Lady Marcia (28 page)

And when his mouth found her soft folds, she moaned.

He licked her and teased her. And with a gentle but probing finger, he breached her warm haven. She writhed and moaned as if she couldn’t take any more, but when he pulled back his head a fraction of an inch—only to tease her a bit—she pushed down on the back of his head and forced him to make contact with the nub of flesh he found so sweet.

It was the delicate trigger to the rip-roaring climax she had in the total darkness, her bottom cradled in his hands as he freed the delight that had been coiled like a spring in her—so tightly she’d left a rout that had featured an exciting French countess and come looking for him to satisfy her cravings.

He liked that. He liked that very much.

“I won’t forget your kindness,” she whispered to him. They stood in a new slant of moonlight. She kissed him with an open mouth, making his arousal as hard as granite.

He pulled back. “I consider it my duty, you know.” He caressed her arms and wished he could lay her down and make her his own.

“How so?” she asked him.

He kissed the top of her head. “Every headmistress should have some warm memories to contemplate while she sleeps alone in a big bed after long, trying days herding a bunch of young ladies to their classrooms.”

She chuckled. “I like it when you tease me. Then I don’t feel as bad.”

“Good. Remember me. And this night.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I will.”

He wouldn’t tell her that he was still determined that she’d recall it from the cozy haven of their marital bed.

When he kissed her good night and she stole away, a sharp stab of longing for her assailed him. He watched from the shadows until she made it back into the house and then made his way silently home.

Chapter Twenty-five

Lysandra was back.

Marcia’s initial reaction was,
Ugh
. Although the good part was that she heard from Dr. Trimp—her new friend and amazing source of gossip—that the viscountess hadn’t been happy in Cornwall with Kitto Tremellyn and his castle and had washed her hands of him within two days.

Perhaps Marcia’s plan to bring Oak Hall into prominence—and its benefactress by default—was having its effect on Lysandra’s decision-making.

“We can only hope,” Marcia told the doctor.

They were browsing the colorful stalls filled with food, clothing, books, and unusual teas on Reader Street, an out-of-the-way lane that had undergone a metamorphosis in the past few years and was now one of the most coveted addresses in Mayfair. Once a year, the neighborhood, led by the bookstore, held a miniature fair, which Prinny always attended for the theatrics and to purchase some oversized handkerchiefs in bright hues, the same ones Mr. Trimp was holding up and admiring at the moment.

“I don’t know that I can afford an ‘Otis,’” the doctor said, peering at the tiny, stitched signature in the corner.

“Who can?” returned Marcia. “Have you seen his shoes?”

Janice and Mama had caught her up on all things fashionable. Marcia’s custom wardrobe had come in, and she was decked out in the most stylish accoutrements of the day.

She’d begun to embrace the London lifestyle and her new role as roving ambassador for Oak Hall. She’d milk it for all it was worth so that she’d have even more reason for Lysandra to invite her back to the school as headmistress.

To attract the notice of the elite parents who sought out schools for their daughters, she’d realized she’d have to look like them, attend their functions, and haunt their favorite amusements.

At first, she’d found the prospect daunting—even distasteful—but with each passing day, her heart opened a little bit more to her new life, especially since she’d learned of Finn’s perfidy. It was as if the Marcia she’d created the past few years—competent and caring as she was—had had to be erased and begun again.

The truth tended to jar one if it were brutal. But it also made a mockery of fear and all the strategies one employed to avoid it. So there was nothing to do but move forward, fresh and vulnerable as a new baby.

“Nooo,”
Dr. Trimp said a half hour later. His face paled, which was interesting considering that a few moments before, he’d stayed perfectly rosy-cheeked when he’d come to the rescue of a small boy, who’d been choking on a meat pie, his mother screaming for help. He’d held the boy by the feet, given him a few good shakes, and the meat pie had popped right out.

“What?” Marcia raised her head from the exquisite little oil painting she held in her hands of a beautiful mother and her three-year-old daughter—the painter’s own family, according to the vendor. He lived on Reader Street, was prominent on the Continent, was beginning to be noticed in England.

Dr. Trimp inclined his head. “That petite woman over there. The one who looks like a doll and has attracted Prinny’s notice. I think it’s your benefactress.”

Marcia inhaled a sharp breath. It
was
Lysandra, and she was laughing at something the Prince Regent was saying. “I can’t believe she’s here of all places. It seems too sunny and happy for her taste.”

Dr. Trimp made a knowing face. “It is the fashionable spot to be this afternoon. It’s why you came in the first place.”

Marcia had already been approached by an earl and his wife who’d inquired after her role for Oak Hall but who’d acted distinctly uninterested in sending any of their female progeny there. “I know, but I was so hoping—”

“So hoping what?”

“Not to see her. Not for a while, anyway.”

“You have nothing to fear,” Dr. Trimp said.

That was true. Why was she so leery of seeing Lysandra? She had wonderful news for her. If Marcia could only stay unengaged for the remainder of the Season, a duke’s daughter would attend Oak Hall in the autumn.

It was a fabulous development.

“I think I’m worried she’ll change her mind,” Marcia said. “We brokered a deal, but I don’t trust her to keep her word about anything. She often went back on it when we were students.”

Dr. Trimp laid a hand on her arm. “Control what you can, and let the rest go.”

He was right.

Marcia gathered her courage and headed toward her nemesis. But a moment later, she stopped in her tracks.

Duncan Lattimore, of all people, looking incredibly attractive in a navy blue coat, snowy white cravat, and buff breeches, was holding out his arm to Lysandra.

“Lord Chadwick?”
she said, astounded.

Dr. Trimp squinted. “Oh, yes, the earl who paid you assiduous attention at the Livingstons’ ball, along with his brother. Lord Chadwick lives quite openly with his—”

“Son,”
Marcia interjected.

“Yes,” Dr. Trimp said thoughtfully. “His son.”

“I know all this, Doctor,” Marcia reminded him. “And his son is a lovely boy.”

“You’ve met him?”

“Yes,” she replied, unable to take her eyes off the beautiful picture Lysandra and Lord Chadwick painted.

“Then there must be something to all the gossip that’s been swirling about you and the earl. Oh, and about you and his brother, too. Did you really fob him off on your sister? I hear they were at Astley’s together, having a merry time, because you were convinced he was too much a man for you. Either that, or too little. I heard conflicting reports.”

“Hah,” she said. “Who are these patients of yours? Garrulous old widows with nothing better to do than make up stories? Deluded little men, feverish debutantes, and sour-stomached matrons?”

Dr. Trimp’s eyes widened, and he tried to look very hurt.

“But as for your question,
no,
” she said, “I did
not
fob him off on my sister.”

“Then which of the brothers do you prefer as a suitor?” He scratched his nose as if he didn’t care, but he did. She could tell by the gleam in his eye.

She blushed. “Neither. I’m not looking for a husband. But if I had to choose, it would be Lord Chadwick. He’s the one who helped me secure the Duke of Beauchamp’s granddaughter for Oak Hall.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize it was he who’d fostered the introduction,” said Dr. Trimp. “I assumed it was an older peer of the realm—perhaps a friend of your stepfather’s. Not a young, virile earl.”

“I forgot to mention that,” she said faintly. “I think I’ll wait till later to talk to Lysandra.”

Dr. Trimp sighed. “Very well.”

She could tell he’d been hoping for some drama.

And then Lord Chadwick caught a glimpse of her. Both his brows arched high before he took on a more guarded expression.

“He’s surprised I’m here,” she murmured.

“Indeed, it looks that way,” Dr. Trimp said excitedly. He grabbed her wrist and felt her pulse. Even she knew it must be racing. “You’re discombobulated, aren’t you? His presence has thrown you distinctly off balance, even more than Lady Ennis’s has.”

“No,” she insisted. “Why would I be discombobulated?”

“Unsettled, then.”

“Yes, perhaps that.” She shook her wrist free. “Come, Dr. Trimp.” She began to wend her way through the crowd.

“We’re going to see them?”

“Yes,” she said. “I—I can’t help myself. I think I must enjoy drama, too.”

“I believe you’re merely curious,” Dr. Trimp said in condescending fashion.

She hadn’t achieved quite the level of enthusiasm
he
had for good gossip.

They had to pause when a crocodile of schoolgirls passed in front of them with their teacher. They were headed toward the bookstore. One of the girls made eye contact with Marcia, who waved and grinned at her.

“On a special outing?” Marcia asked her.

The girl looked swiftly away, and Marcia felt a pang of sadness. She was a stranger, after all. The girl couldn’t know that she was a former teacher and headmistress who’d loved her students.

But she mustn’t think of what she’d had to give up. She was going to get it back, wasn’t she?

When Lysandra, on Duncan’s arm, spotted Marcia, the widow merely narrowed her eyes and tossed her head, a combination of gestures of which she was most fond. And then she looked away, at Prinny, to be exact, who was laughing uproariously at a pantomime in front of the bookstore called Hodgepodge.

Marcia couldn’t help being pleased that she appeared as modish as Lysandra. She pasted a beatific smile on her face—she’d learned it at her mother’s knee—and approached the pair.

“Good afternoon, Lord Chadwick,” she said.

“It’s a fine day,” the earl said, his expression inscrutable. He bestowed a very brief kiss on her knuckles.

“Lady Ennis, how do you do?” Marcia said pointedly.

Reluctantly, Lysandra turned her beautifully coiffed head to meet her gaze. “Lady Marcia,” she said, her tone like lukewarm pudding.

“May I introduce my friend Dr. Trimp?”

The usual platitudes were exchanged. Dr. Trimp smiled and bowed over the viscountess’s hand. He and the earl inclined their heads in each other’s direction. And then they began speaking of the previous evening’s fight at Gentleman Jackson’s and got drawn away into a group of gentlemen nearby who’d overheard their sporting talk.

Lysandra took a step back and looked down her nose at Marcia. “I see you’re kitted out as befits a marquess’s stepdaughter.”

“Yes,” Marcia said. “It’s not as bad as I thought it might be.”

Lysandra gave a mean-spirited little laugh. “It doesn’t come naturally to you, does it? No doubt it’s in your blood to crave the humble things in life, rather than the lofty and elegant.”

Marcia was about to reply when a missile of some kind landed at Lysandra’s feet and burst open, spilling a bright red liquid that could only be water mixed with cherry juice all over the front of Lysandra’s gown.

Not a drop spilled on Marcia’s, and she wondered at her great good luck, and then she remembered she was owed a bit of luck after all Lysandra had put her through.

Lysandra gasped. “
Who
did this?” She looked over her shoulder at her maid. “Girl, come and help me immediately.”

They stood in the street, about twenty feet away from a house. The square-faced servant rushed over from ten feet away and began dabbing at Lysandra’s gown with her own skirt, getting nowhere fast.

Marcia looked up.

Two faces peered over the edge of the roofline. “You
idiot,
” a round-faced young boy exclaimed loudly to a gangly young man next to him. “You were supposed to drop it directly down, to the target on the pavement.”

Marcia caught a glimpse of a large, painted white circle on the pavement, complete with a bull’s-eye in the middle.

“I slipped,” the other boy said. “I was about to topple over the edge of the roof and caught myself just in time. The bag simply flew out of my hands.” He winced and cupped his hand around his mouth. “Sorry, madam!” he called to Lysandra.

“Rot in hell!” Lysandra called up to him.

But not one of the men turned at the exclamation. Apparently, the boxing match had been an exciting one. That, plus the noise of the crowd diffused any attempt at communication from a distance greater than several feet.

“Oh, get away,” Lysandra said to her maid.

“Yes, my lady.” The girl scurried off, her own gown ruined as well, poor thing.

“I’d help you with those stains,” Marcia told Lysandra, “but there’s nothing really we can do at the moment, except perhaps pour a bucket of water on them.”

She enjoyed that thought.

“Thanks for nothing.” Lysandra stared daggers at her as if the ruined gown were Marcia’s fault.

“
This
might make you feel better,” Marcia said. “The duke said yes. He’ll send his granddaughter to Oak Hall.”

Lysandra’s mouth fell open. “You’re jesting.”

For once, she acted like an ordinary acquaintance, Marcia noticed. Her exclamation lacked malice, almost as if she thought she and Marcia were a team, or friends, or colleagues.

It was rather nice.

“No, I’m
not
jesting.” Marcia allowed her own excitement to enter her voice. “But there’s a condition. I mustn’t get engaged for the entire Season. The duke
likes
that you called us a wallflower among schools, and—”